Page 85 of Wicked Vile King
"I'm so hungry," I say with a pout.
"But the class starts in like," she checks the time on her phone, "two minutes!"
"But I'm so hungry," I repeat, falling dramatically into a wooden rocking chair behind me. "Be brave. Go on without me."
"You've been a good soldier." She nods at me, her expression serious. "Godspeed, queen."
"Godspeed," I call to her, and then she's off, headed to the jewelry-making class.
With a grumble, I climb to my feet and start my search for food.
There are snacks everywhere, sold in vending machines and the general store—packaged chips, chocolate chip cookies, sodas in glass bottles, and individual ice cream sandwiches stamped with the town's logo—but I want something real, a hamburger, a hotdog, or better yet, a freshly cooked meal. I spot signs for a restaurant and follow them between the log-cabin buildings.
I can smell food now, and it reminds me of Mama's fried chicken and homemade biscuits. My stomach groans as I continue down the sidewalk, searching for the restaurant. I don't care if I have to eat alone, at least I'll be alone with fried chicken.
And green beans.
And collard greens.
Andoh-my-God-I'm-so-freaking-hungry.
I turn down a cobblestone path, looking for the restaurant, but I get turned around at a roundabout that's more appropriately sized for humans, rather than vehicles. I am at the rear of a cluster of buildings, trying to smell my way toward lunch, when I am shoved out of nowhere through a door markedemployees-only.
I stumble inside as the door quickly shuts behind me, and my first messed-up thought is to get excited because it has to be Saint, but when I look up, I don't find Saint standing in front of the door, blocking my exit. Instead, there's a girl in a long white dress staring at me in the dark light of what appears to be a replica tannery. There are ominous hooks jutting from the walls and heavy pelts hanging from chains attached to the ceiling, and it makes the sight even creepier.
A shiver walks up my spine and then breaks out into a full run. It feels like every hair on me stands on end all at once.
The girl looks familiar, but in the dim light, it takes me a long moment to place her. She's from the halls, the library, and the pool.
She's the one who's always hidden, never showing her face.
I stand there, frozen and wondering what's going on, before the girl steps out of the shadows and into the light, and it takes everything in me—every single bit of self-control—not to scream. But what would she do if I screamed? Beneath the light in the tiny building, she stares at me with one brown eye, her other clouded over and the color of curdled milk.
It's like staring at two sides of a coin, only instead of a coin, it's her face. One side is soft and beautiful with shiny black hair, a manicured eyebrow, and a soft pout. Her other, though, is not. Above the dead eye runs a scar from the center of her forehead, disappearing beneath her hair, down across her orbital bone, and around to her ear. It's purple and thick and when she blinks, it lifts the side of her face along with it.
What happened to her?
"W . . . w . . . willow," she stutters. "I . . . I . . . I am A . . . Alice."
"Hi, Alice," I say with a swallow.
How does she know my name?
She steps forward, and I step back, my knees brushing against a wooden chair behind me.
"I . . . it's ha . . . ha . . . hard to get y . . . you a . . . alone," she says before she stops walking abruptly and starts to hit herself once, twice, three times, and then four, banging her small fists against her head.
I back away slowly—everything in me screaming to run. I stop moving when she looks up at me again.
"I . . . I am s . . . s . . . sorry," she says.
"Sorry?" I ask. "What for?"
"F . . . f . . . for having to k . . . k . . . kill you." She pulls a knife from her sleeve, and it's huge, at least six inches long and wide. A butcher's knife.
What the fuck?!
"You don't . . ." I begin, but it's too late for words. She pounces forward, surprisingly fast given her clumsy, uneven gait.
